


It's Been A While

by TypewriterLove



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer, Dreamer Trilogy - Maggie Stiefvater, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art Theft, Childhood Friends, Crossover, F/M, Friendship, No beta we post like men, Pen Pals, The Parent Trap but it's for whole families, [pinches fingers] its about the inherent homoeroticism of best friends, art theft as intricate ritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23419282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypewriterLove/pseuds/TypewriterLove
Summary: A nine year old Artemis Fowl first met eight year old Declan Lynch at a Fairy Market in an abandoned onsen just outside Kyoto. This has generally been regarded as a Very Bad Idea.
Relationships: Declan Lynch & Artemis Fowl II
Comments: 11
Kudos: 74





	It's Been A While

**Author's Note:**

> this fic brought to you by: me rereading the first 3 Artemis Fowl books during quarantine and demanding to know the likelihood of TWO roguishly charming Irish fathers disappearing, abandoning their dreamy blonde semiconscious wives whose names start with A and their deeply traumatized eldest sons who turn to magic secrets + criminal behaviors and care way too deeply about their younger siblings in the same general stretch of time??? anyways they're drinking buddies now
> 
> canon divergence for AF because, as mentioned, I haven't reread beyond book 3 and have played fast and loose with the timeline. chronology?? never heard of her.

A nine year old Artemis Fowl first met eight year old Declan Lynch at a Fairy Market in an abandoned onsen just outside Kyoto. This has generally been regarded as a Very Bad Idea by those few who know of their meeting. Several such few have died or retired as an inadvertent result of their knowing, while another fellow has since disappeared into the Eastern Andes, never to be heard from again. That’s fine by them. Both Declan and Artemis know where he lives. Sometimes, during long, desultory nights spent drinking from one or the other’s fine crystal, while the fire burns low in their respective studies and the shadows stretch long, their five-syllable words unspool themselves over the course of the evening. And sometimes, in the midst of all their mutual maudlin drinking, they’ll spark a smile with the thought; “We ought to send him a letter.”

Sometimes, if drunk enough, they do. A sober Fowl and Lynch is already an international terror; drunk, and their intimidation factor skyrockets in negative correlation to their seriousness. When truly drunk they snort over each other shoulders, fighting for the fountain pen, and usually wake the next morning to an agonizing headache and reports of their victim having fled the continent.

“Why not mention his dog — that stray he keeps feeding. It hurt its leg recently.”

Declan swung around in the desk chair with an unimpressed eyebrow. “We’re not threatening the man’s _dog_ , Artemis. Isn’t that beneath you?”

Artemis offered something too delicate to be a snort. “I thought nothing was beneath me.” He had slunk to the Persian carpet besides the bureau, rolling up his sleeves. His eyes, dark blue, held the same half-bemused, half-surprised expression he always wore when attempting a joke. Declan humored him. He always did.

Their jackets were long since abandoned, flung over armchairs and end tables. A raw silk tie worth several hundred dollars curled, dripping, off a lampshade. It’s pale-mustard was now burnished gold at the edge with whiskey — Declan had a habit of gesticulating for emphasis (a storyteller’s inheritance he refused to acknowledge) that only grew more pronounced as the night wore on, unfortunately for Artemis’ tie. This, the boys unanimously agreed, was an acceptable loss. They were so well designed, so brilliantly composed, with minds less like Swiss watches and more like atomic clocks. They rarely had the luxury of, as the youths say, “cutting loose.” Or, if they did take risks, it usually included international or otherworldly affairs. The simple carelessness of a stained shirt, a scuffed shoe, a slurred word — these were luxuries all the money in the world could not buy them. There are some things only friends can offer. 

“I’m not going to hurt an animal Lynch, for goodness sake. But the last visuals showed it limping. Surely we could mention that.”

Declan leaned back in the chair, brass creaking. His eyes were blue, but Lynch blue — winter squall blue, sleek-sharp icicles. But they warmed tonight, their sharp edges a tad melted. He used the tip of a well-polished brogue to tilt the chair from side to side, thinking. “‘You ought to keep a better eye on what’s yours,’ perhaps? Or is that too Bond villain?”

Artemis cast a pointed look across the room. Leather bound books, Chesterfield sofas, old globes and astrolabes that most men would buy for appearance’s sake, but often found actual use. They were in Artemis Fowl Sr’s old study tonight, one of the secondary estates his parents were spending less and less time in as they played happy family with the twins. There was a hint of bitterness to the thought. He washed it out with a sip of Glenmorangie ’74 and looked back at Lynch. “You were saying?”

Declan huffed a laugh, aiming the nib of the pen at him. “Point. But still — animals? Really Artemis?”

Fowl pursed his lips as he pulled himself upright, settling back into a well-composed sprawl on the arm chair. No matter how comfortable the carpet was, he was a Fowl after all. Fowls did not slide, laughing, onto the floor. Even if, sometimes, Lynch and whiskey managed to make him forget. A dangerous combination, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. Heaven forbid he be comfortable around others. This was because Artemis Fowl Jr. had very little notion of what friends who were male, human, his own age and not in his employ were supposed to be like. Most men would find him strange for his, and kinder fellows would pity him. But Declan Lynch, who had no notion of what friends who were his own age, un-dreamt, and not related by blood or cutthroat politics felt like, found nearly all of Artemis’ behaviors perfectly reasonable.

You may be beginning to understand why the man ran.

Additionally; “Why certainly Lynch, perhaps we’re being overzealous towards the man who defrauded the Hungarian Wildlife Conservation funds. It’s certainly unmerited for someone who fired his factory workers for proving exposure to lead paint. And who could forget how in Thailand—”

He was interrupted by a squeal of brass wheels, Declan pushing closer to the desk with a wave of the Montblanc. “Yes, yes, how could I forget. Dogs do not a moral backbone make. Now keep drinking and leave me to my villainy.”

Artemis toasted him with the remaining sliver of amber, his grip on the glass only slightly unsteady. “‘The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success.’”

Declan laughed, properly, looking away with squinted eyes as he always did when laughing. As if the reality of happiness were too much for him to face. Artemis found himself relaxing further into the couch, the whiskey and the sound washing over him. He felt warm. Something about Declan Lynch always felt just a little like the onsen, the rush of steam clinging to his face against the cold Kyoto night.  Another child might have taken their shoes off to a dip a toe — Artemis merely stood, spine straight, by the edge of the water as the rush of voices flooded from the curtained doorframe. Vendors haggling down buyers in a hundred tongues, discordant notes of arguments rising and falling like licks of jazz, the swell of his father’s laughter merging with another mans. Butler loomed, silent as a shadow, by the doorway. Artemis knew he would have to return eventually. His father offered him countless freedoms, but even he knew better than to allow a child free reign of the Fairy Market — specifically, to allow _Artemis_ free reign. God knows who would get hurt. 

But still, he stood. For just a minute longer, Artemis told himself, watching the snow flakes melt into the water, and imagining the warmth. 

Which is when a polite American voice, with just a curve of an Irish vowel to it, said “Oh, excuse me.” And there stood Declan Lynch, eight years old and bright-eyed in a Brooks Brother suit. His smile already had well-oiled hinges, even if it was missing a few teeth. “I was trying to find some air. Pardon me for interrupting.”

His vowels weren’t all Northern brogue, Artemis realized distantly. There was another sort of roundness to his _pardon_ , something unexpectedly Southern. His eyes, ice blue as the frost on the windows, looked straight at Artemis. He hasn’t seen Butler yet, Artemis realized, and then, as the boy’s gaze remained calmly unmoving with his back to the door — no, he assumed Butler was there before he ever came outside. _Interesting._ Artemis smiled, and saw the hinges of the boy’s cheeks swing a little wider. 

Unfortunately for both their fathers, a rather expensive set of Turkish throwing knives, a Heian period celestial map, a bottle of cabernet sauvignon reportedly owned by Thomas Jefferson and an entire plate of sugared flowers would go missing that night. It was perhaps the most expensive game of pre-pubescent one-upmanship the criminal world had seen. The thieves in question spent much of the night sequestered behind the decorative boulders of the hot spring, trading sticky petals and dares only they would be clever enough to pull off. They didn’t care much for the wine — Artemis’ father knew a woman in Australia who would be happy to bleed her stock portfolio dry for just the bottle — but the _kontenzu_ they unwrapped with careful hands, tilting the map until they could find the stars above them. Neither of them could read Tenshō era Japanese, and a few sugar crystals adhered to the paper, but still. Butler remained, unseen, by the doorway, face rigid with the effort of concealing a proud smile. His young charge had made a friend. 

* * *

The senior Fowl and Lynch spent the night happily unaware of this development, busy as they were trading stories and business ventures. The pleasures of encountering a fellow Irish man at the Fairy Market were many, and the night rang with their laughter — oblivious to what was happening outdoors. Not until the sun was threatening to break the horizon, the vendors breaking down tables and storing their wares, did the two begin to wonder where their sons had gone. And then — like magic — Artemis stepped briskly to his father’s side as Declan appeared from the opposite room. Their timing would have been mysterious if it wasn’t perfectly choreographed; they had decided to stow their goods in each other’s respective vehicles, before splitting up and regrouping with their fathers. Only Butler knew of their success, and he wouldn’t tell.

“Arty! Here, look, someone for you to meet. This is Niall’s son — Ronan, was it?” Fowl Sr’s smile was brilliantly white, blown wide with mirth. He had dimples. Sometimes Artemis dug a knuckle into his own cheeks, wondering where they came from. Somehow, they had skipped a generation. 

Niall’s smile faltered, settling, as he glanced aside to find Declan at attention. “No, no, this is the eldest. Declan. Say hello.”

Declan stepped forward, arm thrust outward like a toy soldier. “Declan Lynch. Pleasure to meet you.” His face was a perfect mask of politeness. His eyes burned bright.

“Artemis Fowl Jr. The pleasure’s all mine.”

It was a lie; the pleasure belonged to them both. As their fathers continued to meet with vague promises of future business, the boys arranged their own rendezvous at each location. Plans were hatched, pockets were picked, and mayhem generally ensued. The affair at the Venezuelan Consulate was still technically under investigation. But, how could they help themselves? They were too clever for others by half. The boys couldn’t see each other often, perhaps twice a year, and spent the long months in between thinking up dares for one another. Their plans grew as they did — for Artemis’ 10th birthday, Declan had decided, he would help him rob the Rijksmuseum. Asselijn’s _Threatened Swan_ could make for a good fowl joke. By this point they were pen-pals, their seemingly-civil friendship a pleasant conversation topic for their fathers. Thick as thieves, Fowl Sr. joked, and Niall (who always smiled as if he knew more than he let on) would grin. The boys had to be careful sending blueprints to each other, hiding RFID scanners in books and baked goods within care packages. Declan allowed himself to be excited. It was a birthday that promised to be legendary.

And then: the news broke. _Irish Businessmen Vanished in Arctic_. _Fowl Sr. Suspected Dead; Still Missing_. _Leaves behind loving wife and young son_. Declan sent him letters to the Fowl manor for a year. Each was mailed back, unopened, with blood-bright ink stamped: RETURN TO SENDER. Declan filed them neatly in a box besides reams of blueprints and a slightly bent sugared flower, and tucked it away. He was getting very good at fitting things into boxes.

Of course, he still kept an eye out. Followed news alerts of Fowl Industries on his new white Macbook, paid a hacker to forward him Interpol reports of Butler spottings. It was hard balancing Aglionby with the Barns, staying a step behind his father in Kuala Lumpur or Helsinki or Vladivostok and still finishing his English lit essays on time. Keeping an eye on Ronan, and a closer eye on Matthew, and keeping every string from crossing the other lest the whole thing come crashing down. Declan had always known to keep his moving parts separate — it’s what made heists so interesting. But now he had no one to plan with, and no one to talk to. He wound the threads of himself a little tighter instead, and prayed they would hold.

Then Ronan found their father in pieces. Then Aurora fell asleep. Then the world began to spin very fast, indeed.

* * *

Artemis, for his part, always felt a sort of pang over the years when he thought of the Lynch boy who had sent so many letters. Being unaccustomed to such pangs, he usually labeled it heart burn and vowed to avoid coffee for the day. But over the years of searching for his father, of blackmailing fairies and saving the world (one too many times, in his own opinion) and coming undone around the edges, he knew he had no time in his life for “friends”. It was time to put away childish things, a 10 year old Artemis had decided, and that included childish games of organizing impossible heists. He told Butler to sort his mail and set himself to the task of reclaiming the family fortune. 

And if, sometimes, when his mother clawed her nails towards his face and the manor ran loud with his footsteps; if, sometimes, he found himself leaning over the steam of his tea for a moment too long, breath held to keep the warmth; well. His father had taught him every venture came with necessary losses. 

Until now; his father regained and reputation reformed, his mother rational and radiant, himself the older brother of twins. Holly and Foaly and Mulch all seemingly serene. College and graduate school and PhDs all long-since graduated. At 20, there was little left to do save for his ongoing pet projects — the Mars rocket design was a pleasant puzzle over breakfast and late at night — and make the rounds, keeping his own network of informants and associates alive and well. It’s been years now since he’s personally attended the Fairy Market under his given name, often preferring to send Butler or Juliet in his stead, but Artemis’ boredom is a threat all its own.

Most attendees know this, and all of them know his face. Men in richly embroidered dresses and women walking arm in arm lean subtly out of Artemis’ path along the hotel corridors, offering a respectful berth to the young man in a sharp suit with sharper eyes. Those of the old guard, who remember trouble when they see it, can’t help but be amused. They hold their wares a little tighter, keep their eyes on the exits, but — in the typical fashion of the Market — settle in to watch. The scion of the Fowl house has returned. _How auspicious,_ they murmur, _first Bryde, then Lynch, now Fowl makes three_.

The _Lynch_ catches his ear. He had heard the news, of Niall. His mother had insisted they send flowers. Artemis refused to sign the card. He was still young then, increasingly paranoid, and some part of his brain that refused to fall silent said _you stole his father’s life for your own. you wished so hard you took it_. Impossible, he knew. That wasn’t how magic worked. _wasn’t it? everyone knew Niall was a form of magic all his own. you meddled with time, stole magic for yourself. haven’t you always taken what wasn’t yours?_

Which is when Artemis found his fingers tapping out four quarter time, thinking about sugared flowers and steam, and decided he couldn’t make it to the funeral after all. 

Now, years later, he wonders. _Lynch_. The name catches him by the throat. There are three Lynches it could refer to, of course, no guarantee it was Declan —now there were three sons of both their houses, and isn’t that another mystery in a long string of coincidences? When they’d first met each other’s mothers, one drizzly night in Belfast when everyone was still young and golden, and their fathers decided it was safe for a family trip, it was all the boys could do not to gape. Aurora and Angeline’s hair fell to almost precisely the same length. Their laughter, combined, sounded like a front porch tangled with wind chimes. Neither wife had noticed their husbands, chin in hands, watching adoringly. It was sickening. Declan had poked a gentle elbow into Artemis’ side. “Are you sure this isn’t The Parent Trap?” he muttered.

Artemis paused for a long moment. Gears turning. “Why on earth would we want to trap our parents?”

Declan had just laughed in the way he had, his face turned away, and explained Lindsey Lohan to Artemis who hadn’t really seen the point (how could anyone believe her British accent was real?) But now, steps slowing along the plush carpet, Artemis allowed himself to feel the pang and question whether or not caffeine was truly at fault. A friend, he thought, wonderingly. Had he really had a friend? Even before Holly? And look how he had treated him. 

Artemis made his way thoughtlessly through the rooms, trading pleasantries with piano thieves and fortune tellers, arms dealers and artists, all while his mind worked tirelessly in the background. Even if Lynch wasn’t here — for, indeed, there was no guarantee that he would be at a Market that traded in misdirection — surely there was something he could do. Some apology he could make. What if he stole something from the Rijksmuseum? Sure, their security had been improved in recent years, and half the fun of it was gone without Declan. But perhaps that would serve as proof of his sincerity. _Girl in A White Kimono_ could be fitting.

He stepped past an indistinct person dressed entirely in black, and skirted around a lithe woman lugging a worryingly large trash bag down the hall. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and gave him a wink, unworried by the weight. She was wearing stilettos, Artemis noticed, and thought of Juliet. She would know what to do. She could hotwire a car, apply eyeliner, and prepare a perfect Coq au Vin all in the time his indecision was taking him. She’d attempt floral arrangements for the table too, though she wasn’t quite perfect at them yet, Artemis smirked, and then— _oh._

* * *

Declan Lynch is trying not to worry. It’s hard, given that he’s really rather exceptionally good at it.Given that, tonight of all nights, he has willingly escorted Ronan to the Fairy Market. But for just one moment, Declan wanted to imagine. That he had simply met an interesting girl on a beautiful night, and the curl of anxiety snaking through his stomach was the simple question of will-she-or-won’t-she call? That his baby brother wasn’t spending long afternoons staring at rivers, and Ronan wasn’t coming undone at the Barns, and his D.C. job wasn’t just another disappointment in a long string of mundanities surrounded by people he couldn’t stand. Just one moment, he prayed, eyes closed, a step away from Jordan’s easel. Just one moment where nothing happens.

“I take it you approve of the painter’s credentials. Or were you simply looking to provide a Sargent lecture?”

The lilt hits his stomach before his brain. Declan feels the anxiety tilt into something just similar enough to be different, blooming spiky and bright. He opens his eyes. 

“Fowl. What an unexpected pleasure.” It was a lie. 

Artemis Fowl stood as sharply outlined as ever, a navy waist-coat and suit so dark it looked black. Everything about him looked inked in, crisp, absolute. Declan wonders how he’d ever managed to stand those dark blue eyes. They were electric, scanning and reading every inch of him in real time. Surely there was nothing he could tell Fowl that the man hadn’t deduced himself. Well, two could play at that game. 

Declan’s eyes were a perfectly reflective plane of ice. He smiled like a textbook illustration. “It’s been a while. I trust your family’s well?”

Fowl fisted his hands in his pockets.“Oh yes, very well. Angeline sends her regards.” He purposefully did not return the question.

“How kind. What brings you here?”

“This and that. The regular affairs. Perhaps I’ll pick up some art while I’m at it,” the corner of Artemis’ mouth slid sideways, halfway towards a smile, as he titled his head towards Jordan’s display behind them. “She seems proficient.” 

Declan gritted his teeth into a grin. “Quite the compliment. I’m sure you could afford the original.” 

Fowl lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Perhaps. But where’s the challenge?”

“Mm. I wouldn’t know. Well, if you’ll excuse me—” Declan hid teeth behind a close-mouthed smile, made as if to turn. His stomach was still a roil of sparks, and he’d lost track of Ronan. His mind was already hurtling forwards into the future, running the numbers the time he’d wasted, the uncharacteristic risks he’d taken, the inevitable, terrible repercussions. 

Until Artemis stepped closer. They’d stood about 6 feet apart the whole time, passerby skirting along the sides, no one daring to intervene. The vendors and voyeurs held a collective breath at the move. This, they murmured amongst themselves, was why the Fairy Market was better than cable. 

“I’d rather not. I owe you a… drink. At the very least.”

The pause was enough to make Declan pause in his half-turn. It was less than half a breath, but from Artemis Fowl? It was akin to stammering. Declan tilted his head, considering. Fowl’s face was smooth, uncreased, perfectly unbothered, but his eyes were dark. Something moving in the depths, even moreso than usual. He almost looked pained, Declan thought. _Hm_. 

“I’m afraid I have another obligation this evening,” he tested. 

Artemis’ eyes shuttered. “I see. Naturally.” 

Over a decade later and Artemis was still so easy to read. For just a moment, Declan felt curiously young. 

“However, I’m currently in the area. Are you staying in D.C?”

Nothing changed in Artemis’ face. His expression was as smooth as Declan’s, two mirrors reflecting each other. And yet, Declan could see the exact moment his eyes burned bright again. This was how it felt to get something right, to fit a sweaty hand around a jeweled hilt and slip away at just the right second. This was how it felt to win a dare, Declan remembered.

Artemis dug a hand into his jacket, pulled out a card, and stepped close in one smooth movement. “For a few days, yes. Please do feel free to give me a call.” Declan took the card — thick ivory with a strange shimmer to it, almost fibrous, were those _optic cables?_ — and offered his own. “I’ll endeavor to find the time. It’s good to see you well, Fowl.” 

Artemis took the card unseeing, eyes on Declan, as he clasped a hand on Lynch’s shoulder. Artemis, Declan realized distantly, was at least two inches shorter than him.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Artemis promised. This time, his mouth fully slid into a smile. He’d gotten better at it since they’d met, not as much of a grimace as it once was, but still distinctly smirk-like as opposed to sincere. Declan found himself making a study of the man so he wouldn’t think about the hand on his arm. 

And then— Artemis _winked_. And he was gone. 

* * *

Ronan found his brother several minutes later, perfectly composed as normal. But he actually stumbled when Ronan shoved him, and looked a little shell-shocked. “What’s wrong with you?” Ronan was better at accusing than asking. But still. Declan was acting even stranger than normal. And he had something, “What’s in your hand?”

That shook him. “Nothing,” Declan announced, pressing a hand into his pocket. Pausing again, as though buffering. He looked to Ronan and raised a supercilious brow “Are you done playing around?” Ronan snorted a breath through his nose, raising his chin to a cutting edge. “Fuck off. Let’s go.” 

As Ronan stalked down the passageway, trailing whispers of _Bryde_ and _Lynch_ in his wake, Declan found himself uncaring for the first time in a long time. He pressed a hand into his slacks again, feeling the smooth curve of cold glass. He palmed it, quick and careful, to take a glance. A small display case, no bigger than a gumball machine’s prize, with a black base and something sparkling in the center. A flower, Declan realized, but with too much of a sheen. Spun entirely from melted sugar. A purple hyacinth. 

Declan smiled towards his shoulder, pocketed the box and stepped briskly after his brother. The spikiness stretched and grew, warming with every step, and Declan realized this was how it had felt to sketch a blueprint, to pick a pocket, to meet bright eyes with a grin. Huh, he thought, anticipation. It’s been a while.

**Author's Note:**

> opening scene takes place a few months after the last scene bc I wanted immediate friendship. see, I was originally planning on no homo friendship but somehow Artemis got a little homo? as a treat. but I'm a BIG Jordan fan, so trust me when I say she'll be making an appearance if this continues. i have 6 pages of notes abt how the Gangsey and AF gang interact so this may continue to Be A Thing if people want more c:
> 
> thank you for reading, and please continue to stay safe & healthy wherever you are!


End file.
